The Man with No Eyes
by Vianne Lee
Summary: CIA Agent Sands battles one on one with death. Short story. Please R&R.


April 3, 2005 – 10:10 p.m.

Re: August 9, 2005 – 30:01 a.m.

Author: Vianne Lee

I.D.: Once Upon a Time in Mexico

Rights: ©VianneLee2005

Rating: Yeah, this is about Agent Sands, so I'm going out on a limb here – It's R…for language, drug reference, suggestive themes, adult content, language…oh and violence and gore – lots of that crap.

Disclaimer: I do not out Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands or anything else that belongs to other people…I do own Agent Carmine Solise and anything else that's new. And I own this coke that I'm drinking as well. Any reproduction of any real people, places, or events in purely coincidental. Can you dig it?

Short Story

THE MAN WITH NO EYES

Agent Carmine Solise knelt down next to the listless body and had to hold her breath as the stench of infection captivated her nostrils. Dark, red bloodstains swathed both of the man's thighs and left arm, and blood seeped from beneath both lenses of a pair of dark sunglasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. The indications that the man was alive were few. Only that he let out a soft moan whenever she touched his arm, and warm sweat poured from his body as a result of the fever that ravaged his mind.

"How long has be been like this?" She asked a boy in Spanish.

The boy, about twelve or so, shrugged. "A little over two days, ma'am."

It was obvious that the man needed immediate medical attention. However, the nearest working hospital was over two hundred miles away. Because the Mexican government was falling, the country was on a rampage and it would be impossible to travel that far safely, nonetheless get back to the states. She would have to take matter into her own hands.

"I need some rubbing alcohol." She ordered the boy. "I need something to disinfect the wounds. Also bring back some water and rags. We need to keep him cool and we need bandages."

She began to unbutton the man's shirt and tingled when her hands grazed across the muscles of his bronze torso. She shook her head. She needed to concentrate and that was proving hard enough. She slid his right arm from his sleeve. The shirt was soaked, his sweat dripping from it as if it were water. The rest easily slid from his left arm and the shirt splattered onto the garage floor with nothing more that a moan from the semi-conscious man. She bit her lower lip when she saw the bullet wound on his blood smeared upper arm. It was swollen and purple, green and brown puss gushing from the opening.

She quickly unbuckled his boots and pulled off his socks. She removed the gun holsters from around his waist and gently laid them on the ground next to her. Her hands trembled as she worked his belt buckle, and even more as she unbuttoned his pants and unzipped his fly. "Jesus, get a hold of yourself," she whispered as she gently slid his pants off. He cried out when they slid over his wounds on his thighs and when she saw the two bullet holes, tears accumulated is the corners of her eyes. Like the arm wound, both thighs were severely infected with an incredible amount of blood loss. She was surprised his was alive, but he wouldn't be for long with wounds like these.

She then realized the man was totally naked saver for a pair of black boxers and sunglasses. Her eyes wonder to the bulge in between his legs and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks even in the given circumstances. She quickly grabbed his shirt and draped it over his waist. She couldn't risk any distractions.

Her mind went back to its tack and she reached for the sunglasses. She slipped them from his nose, but when she saw what lay behind them, they plummeted from her grasp and she spun around, tears rolling down her checks.

"Fck!" she screamed. "What the fck did they do to you?" She took in a shaky breath and swallowed, trying to compose herself. This man would die if she didn't keep herself together.

"The man has not eyes," the boy said shakily, standing by the doorway of the garage, holding a bowl of water, a pile of rags, and the bottle of rubbing alcohol. He quickly set the things down by her, but when he saw the man's eyes, or what would have been his eyes, he ran out the door like he had just seen a ghost.

"Fine, don't help me!" She shouted after him and turned back to the man, trying her best to hold in the contents of her stomach. His eye sockets were black pits, sloshing with a jelly substance that seemed to be a mixture of blood and infectious liquids. The stench seemed to erupt from the hollows, and she gagged and swallowed back the acid that rose to her throat.

Carmine took the rag, soaked it with water, and started to cleanse around the wounds. When she was done, both the rag and bowl of water were red from the blood. Examining each wound, she came to the conclusion that all three bullets were lodged inside the limbs. Each wound had an entrance, but no exit – jut like she was afraid of.

Unsheathing the knife that hung from her waist, she took a deep breath. "Please don't wake up," she whispered and brought the knife to the wound on his arm. She would try to remove the bullet without damaging the muscle too much. She knew that if she made one wrong move, she could limit the use of his arm, but if she didn't do anything, he would die. One outweighed the other. The man moaned and trashed his head from side to side as the blade slowly entered the wound. That was good, he was still feeling pain. She located the bullet almost immediately and worked it to the top of the wound until she could see it. Then she grasped it with her fingers and pried it from the muscle. It rolled from her fingertips and hit the cement floor. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, smearing the man's blood across her forehead.

Unscrewing the cap of the rubbing alcohol, she took a whiff of it. The sharp aroma burned her nostrils and made her eyes water. She poured the clear liquid directly on the wound and new sweat droplets rolled down his face and he arched his back as if he had been set on fire. The setting sun's glow shone in through the broken window of the garage and the man's body glistened with sweat and his jet-black hair was plastered to his face. Carmine felt a pulsing deep within her, but she ignored it and forced herself to keep working. She pulled out a sewing kit and quickly thread a needle. Bunching the wound close with her left hand, she quickly stitched it shut. It took only nine stitches, and it held together nicely. In fact, it didn't look half-bad; as far as stitches go, that is. But now wasn't the time to be examining her work. She tied a cloth around his arm, pulled her knife out again and sunk it into his left thigh.

Three bullets lay at Carmine's side and she sighed exhaustedly. The bullet in his left leg came out easily, but she struggled with the one from his right. It was too deep to bring back to the entrance, so she had to push it out the back of his leg. Not only was it hard to remove the bullet from, it seemed to be more infected than the other two wounds. Unlike the other one, she wasn't sure if he'd regain full use of his right leg. Only time would tell. In the end, he should be lucky he's still breathing.

Now she had to deal with the part she dreaded the most – his eye sockets. Just looking at them made her stomach coil. She wasn't even sure where to begin. Taking the empty water bowl, she held it under his face, and gently tipped his head forward. The liquids poured from the captivities and some chunks of muscle splattered into the bowl, slightly splashing the bowls contents. She gagged and turned her head away trying to catch some fresher air. Next, she took what was left of the rubbing alcohol and slowly filled each hollow until it ran down his cheeks. The man gasped and let out a muffled scream, and Carmine used all her strength to keep him from thrashing his head. By the sounds he made, she could have been compacting his eye sockets with salt, not rubbing alcohol.

When he calmed down, she drained the rubbing alcohol into the bowl and wiped off the dried blood from his cheek. Then, she tore a piece of cloth into tow and pressed a piece into each of his eye sockets before putting the classes back on. The glasses would remain on.

For the first time, Carmine really looked at Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands. He had longer black hair, about ear length, cheekbones that could cut glass with ease, and a low and distinct jaw line. She guessed he was a tall man, not overly tall, but he had a nice shape; okay, an extremely nice shape. His muscles weren't overly developed, but he visited the gym often enough. He seemed to hold a unique quality that couldn't be clearly described.

She had been with the Agency seven years, and she had never met Agent sands. She heard his name often enough, but that was either before or following the word "psychotic." Now, here she was, prying bullets from his limbs. Carmine felt sorry for him, really sorry. Even though many people refused to see it that way, he was one of them. He bore the title "Agent," and he deserved it.

Now the question was what to do. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed The Agency. Her boss, Freeman, answered. "Freeman, I have Agent Sands," She bit her lower lip, fighting back tears. "It's bad, sir. I've done everything I can."

"How bad?" Freeman asked carelessly. "Will he live?"

"Yeah," she said weakly. "He's been shot three times. One in his upper left arm, and one in each of his thighs." Freeman went on to say something, but Carmine cut him off. "That's not all, sir. They, uh…they removed his eyes."

"What?" Freeman asked as if he hadn't heard her right.

"He has no eyes! They took his eyes!" Her voice crackled as tears began to flow at the realization of their situation.

"Shit," was all Freeman muttered.

"Please, sir. Send someone down here. I don't know what to do."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?" Carmine's voice rose, not because of anger, but because of fear.

"The boarder's closed. Nobody can come in and nobody can come out."

"The fck they can't!" she shouted. 'What are we suppose to do? We can't stay in this country – with Sands like this. We're the CIA! We're suppose to be the heroes, remember?"

"Listen to me," Freeman said calmly. "Go to the nearest airport and book an immediate flight out of the country. Once at your new destination, contact me, and then we'll talk."

"Fly out of the country? Are you insane?" she chuckled with disbelief. "I'm hiding out in a rundown garage somewhere in San Shitza, Mexico, with a man whose eyes have just been ripped from his head. How do expect us to flee the goddamn country?"

"Agent Solise, you're one of the best agents we have, and I expect you to figure a way out. When you were assigned the job, you knew it wasn't going to be easy."

"I also didn't know it was going to be impossible."  
"That's enough! I'll be waiting for your call." The click indicated that Freeman had hung up. She cursed and flipped the cover of her phone.

"What am I suppose to do?" Carmine whimpered and ran her fingers through her thick, black hair.

"You know, I've always wanted to o to Bermuda," a labored murmur rose from behind her. Startled, she spun around. "Kind of difficult knowing when I'm sleeping or awake, isn't it?" Sands asked. Carmine didn't know what do say. "And before you ask, when you lose something valuable that can never be replaced, you find something to make up for it."  
"You heard me and Freeman?"

"Well, I 'm quite certain the whole neighborhood hear you, but yes, I heard every work Freeman said."

"So, what's your take on it?"

"You're screwed." He said matter-of-factly.

"You mean, _we're _screwed." She corrected.

"No, _you're_ screwed. I'm already as screwed as a person can get."

Carmine didn't argue. "How are you feeling?" she asked turning her attention back to the man's wounds. Sands winced in attempt to offer a smile. "Considering the circumstances, just peachy."

"We've got to figure out a way out of here. It's not safe." Carmine sat down on a weathered yellow bucket in the center of the garage and let out a sigh of frustration. She had no idea what to do.

"Really?" A sarcastic moan rose from Sands. "Isn't that why they sent you, Agent –"

"Solise. Carmine Solise. And they sent me to find out if you were dead or alive."

"Still having a hard time with that one, I see."

Carmine shot Sands a look, but realized it would have no effect. "Listen, you and I both want to get out of this country alive, so we've got to help each other. I've got a car parked outside –"

"Wait, you have a car –"? Sands gestured to the door and chuckled to himself. "Parked out there?" Confused, Carmine rushed to the door. "Still there?" he asked dully.

Carmine cursed. "Damn it." She had told the boy to watch her car. That turned out well. The rig was nowhere insight, and Carmine figured, probably half torn to pieces by now. Sands just laughed. It seemed like he was rather enjoying all of this. "Get up." she said finally.

"What?" Sands couldn't have heard her right.

"Get up. Get dressed." She picked up his damp clothing and threw it on top of him. Sands didn't even flinch.

"I don't know if you're aware of it, but I've been shot in both legs, not to mention my arm and had both of my eyes ripped from my head."

Carmine knelt down next to Sands again so her hair brushed across his cheeks. "I don't know if you're aware of it," she whispered and he could feel the softness of her breath kiss the tip of his nose. "But we're going to have our asses slaughtered if we don't get out of this country. So…deal with it."

"Sure thing… Sugarbutt," he smirked. "But I could use a little help." Carmine looked and saw that Sands was trying to put his leg into his shirtsleeve. She sighed. This was going to be a nightmare.

"You're forgetting something," Sands said after they had successfully dressed him back into black attire. It wasn't an easy job, but he handled it. He had to. When his pants slid over his wounds, his bit his lower lip until it turned purple, then white. His lower legs had turned numb long ago and that was to his relief. Really, he didn't know if it was a good thing or not, but at the moment, it seemed to be. It made the pain less. The body's an incredible machine, he realized. When a person endures an incredible amount of trauma, the brain simply chooses not to remember, not to think, to pretend it never happened. His eyes. He didn't even remember when they took his eyes. Like his legs, his memory was numb too. Thank God.

Carmine picked up his gun holster and wrapped it around her own waist. "What are you doing? I believe those are mine," Sands objected, reaching out for his guns.

"I know, but I think I'll hold on to them for awhile."

"I still have one –" Sands reached to unzip his fly.

"No you don't. I took that one earlier." Carmine grinned and Sands could sense this was going to be a long trip back to the States. He had no idea. "Are you ready?" Sands nodded and Carmine helped him to his feet. He let out a muffled scream and clenched his teeth, at the same time clenching on to Carmine like his very existence depended on her. And in a way it did.

They made their way out the door and down the deserted street. Agent Sands kept most of his weight on Carmine and she struggled supporting him, but there was no other way to travel. He rested his head on her shoulder, his face buried in her neck. She smelt of roses. Blood red roses after a storm, water droplets resting on the cushion of the delicate petals. Sands envisioned this and smiled. Smoke crept into his nostrils, and he could feel the heat of the roadside fires, left from the rampage, on his face.

Carmine couldn't do this much longer. She wanted to collapse. Perhaps then it would all go away. Maybe it was all a dream, but her senses told her differently. The stench of the man she was practically dragging made her gag. He smelled of infection, sour and rancid. His clothes, damp and clammy, stuck to the side of her face and she could hardly breathe without feeling nauseous. Too frequently, they passed a casualty, blood beginning to set black beneath the body. In the distance, children whimpered and cried for their mothers.

They passed a little girl laying on the side of the road. She looked like she was sleeping, her porcilin face that of an angel's. A dry stream of blood stained her white dress and a stuffed bear was still clutched in her tiny fist. Tears exploded from Carmine's eyes and her knees buckled sending them both to the dirt beneath them. Sands began to curse with surprise and pain, but stopped when he heard Carmine's sobs. She laid in the dirt, tears spilling from her eyes, her fists banging onto the ground, bits of rock and glass tearing the flesh on her hands. "I can't do this!" She cried. Sands reached out and touched her. He felt her body shake beneath his hand. Crawling closer, he wrapped his arms timidly around her. She didn't object. She didn't have the strength to. There was something about the arms that held her close, and she sobbed into his shoulder. Sands sat there, holding her, his fingers stroking her hair. He knew why she was crying. He couldn't see it, but he knew. And perhaps, at that moment, not being able to see was better then being able to. This was life. Life with no eyes, setting them up, watching them fall, rigging the game.

FIN


End file.
